A Child's Transgression
by a.e. spencer
Summary: willwillwillwill.....and a little romance of the shipper sort


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Title: A Child's Transgression

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Author: Airebella E. Spencer

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Rating: Strong R at the most

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Feedback: bread is to the body as feedback is to the soul: his_gray_eyes@hotmail.com

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Distribution: Golden Rule, ask first, post later

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Disclaimer: hey, I know I'm good….but there's no way that I'm _that_ good…all props go to JJ

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Summary: Will, Sydney, and their whole reaction to ATY….at little S/V in the end…something I wrote for the CD challenge but couldn't get in in time…..enjoy J 

THANKS to: **Hil**, for hounding my ass when you could…sorry I didn't finish in time, **Kat** for all your help with other things, **Syd** for being crazy enough to give me this idea….glad your home…you're a great sib

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if everything could ever feel this real forever/if anything could ever be this good again/the only thing i'll ever ask of you/you gotta promise not to stop when i say when/she sang **foo fighters**

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There were four. Four pairs of coffee brown eyes, four pairs of ash blonde pigtails, four ocean green sundresses, four pairs of white frilly socks, and four pairs of brown Oxford shoes. Two spun the thin twine, while two more jumped above it, all humming together in rhythm as the rope slapped the asphalt.

Their song was soft at first, almost inaudible. With the Sunday breeze it gathered volume, echoing throughout the empty park against the metal and wood.

"Syd and Will went up the hill

To fetch a pail of water.

Syd felt down,

And broke her crown,

And Will came tumbling after."

[Paris, Virginia]

He would miss her.

He would miss her comforting laugh, her warm chocolate brown eyes. The softness of her fingertips against his impure skin, her dimpled smile, her curved figure.

He would miss the curl of her chestnut locks, the rouge color of her lips. The staccato of her cry, and the rumble of her moan. 

He'd miss her.

She was gone.

**

The coarse black hair of the wig irritated his skin. He hated the way it brushed his cheeks, the sight of it hanging over his eyes, its mere reflection in any and ever glassy surface. It felt unnatural, every grazing with his body stirring nausea. 

He didn't remember. Not the flight into the nation's capital, or the drive through its surrounding boroughs. 

He could only remember awaking in her arms, his head resting in her lap. He remembered her soft smile, the cool feel of her fingers as she lightly caressed his cheek.

He remembered that her eyes were unusually encased in a cushion of swollen rose bags. Her remembered the peculiar way she forced her smiles, the way she kept adjusting her blonde wig, the far-off look that had glazed itself over her vision.

He remembered the quaint Bed & Breakfast that lined the country roadside, it's weathered matron, the feathered pillows and sheets. He remembered hearing her late at night, raving in her sleep, calling for comfort. He reached out to her, and she took his hand, the tears streaming down her cheeks as she opened her eyes and realized it was all a dream. 

Mostly importantly, he remembered the story. The story she herself would weave in the days after he began to remember. The story itself he could never forget.

[London, England]

Their flight from a small airport in McLean, Virginia took them away. Far, far away to a miniscule international airport in suburbia Vermont, connecting to a flight destined for Heathrow. Their conversations were short and mandatory, physical contact strictly forbidden. The cab driver abandoned them in the entrance of a large suite-like loft in the heart of England's most famous city, leaving them in silence.

Her dam broke only a day after. His brisk walk to Piccadilly Circus was followed by an encountered he'd never expected. He found her by her large bed, on the floor, leaning against the large mattress with her head in her hands. 

He didn't understand. 

He couldn't.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her cry. He couldn't even remember the _first_ time he'd seen her in tears. But with sob she seemed to moan, desperately trying to supply her weak lungs with oxygen and cure her broken heart all at once.

He touched her.

She let him hold her. He cradled her in his arms, massaging her back until the tears began to subside. Her breathing remained shallow when the sobs finally stopped, but her body froze in shock. 

She was virtually limp as he lifted her onto the bed. He tucked her in underneath the warm covers and rose to leave, but didn't. He couldn't. Her hold on him was so strong he feared her for the second time in his life {his first marked by a black leather corset and cheap magenta hair}. Her eyes began to water once more, and instead of an outpour of tears, he was met with the opposite.

Words.

Her story. Her life.

The truth. 

It seemed that simple. But it couldn't be. 

As someone once told him, sometimes, the truth hurts.

**

She finally fell asleep in his arms, her face once again stained with tears. He faded into the unconscious once he was sure that he was asleep, only satisfied after viewing a pain serenity on her features. He floated away in a listless sleep, his mind wandering back to days long past. Days when his biggest worry was if he'd tied his shoes right, or changed his underwear. 

He remembered a day, years back and back. A cross country trip with his parents and sisters {there were four}, a stop in Memphis, Texas. There was a playground near his uncles enormous plantation, bordered by oil wells and a drill. They would take out their ropes and jump over it, single rope or Double Dutch. One on each bed, two in the middle, all singing along with the rhythmic turn of the rope. 

Sarah, Elizabeth, Amy{before her redheaded days} and little LuLu, all in their Sunday's best. They would sing their own songs, dreamt up in their naïve imaginations. That day he dreamt of them, but it was different.

They were all blonde.

As children their hair had been so wildly colored that the girls hardly looked related. They were a gleaming chestnut (Tippin, Sarah Louise), a cornsilk blonde (Tippin, Amy Lorraine), a raven black (Tippin, Elizabeth Jane) and a curly auburn (Tippin, Lenore Marie). There was one thing that connected them three, one strand of DNA that held visible proof of their relation. The Tippin blue eyes.

In his dream, it was different.

They were brown.

Four pairs of chestnut brown eyes, encompassed in a fiery circle of orange that made his skin cringe. Yet what chilled him to his core was not their monotone features, or their familiar Sunday dress. 

It was their song. 

From that night on the dream was the same. The same Texan playground, dress and features identical. Their childhood mantra mocked him with its ambiguous foggy meaning.

"Syd and Will went up the hill 

To fetch a pail of water

Syd fell down,

And broke her crown,

And Will came tumbling after."

**

A month had passed. Two was nearing.

They'd missed Francie's birthday.

When he woke up, she was gone. He assumed she went running, as she normally did, her sweating scalp pasted to her skull by a wig of her choice, her eyes dry and ached due to the effect of contact lenses she had been too scared to remove. That morning's run had taken her to Big Ben, more than six miles from their penthouse apartment. 

She walked through the door with an unseen determination woven into her brow, the beads of sweat clinging to the wrinkles on her forehead. Her chestnut curls stuck to the sides of her face, protruding out from underneath a bright auburn mop. She stormed passed him into the bathroom, slamming the door harder than he had expected. She came out fifteen minutes later, her wet locks hanging loosely to her shoulderblades, a black flowered satin bathrobe wrapped around her bare body.

He froze in shock, every red blood cell in his body motionless. The breath in his throat lodged itself at the entrance to his lungs, and as he went longer and longer without oxygen his vision began to fade. By the time she came to stand before him he could barely see, lost in the rapture of her scent which he couldn't breath, her eyes which he couldn't see. 

He blinked, and it was the robe was there.

He blinked again, and it was gone.

With her soft touch his senses snapped back on. He saw her naked perfection, the sultry curve of her hips, the athletic tone of her body. Her entire body was bare, save the iota of material that had been sown into her panties. As her hands continued to caress his cheek he gripped the chair's arm, glad that he had already been sitting. 

She straddled his legs and inched herself up onto his hips and groin, pressing her bare breasts against his chest. His eyes bugged, his muscles tensing as her lips brush the base of his jaw.

The first nip made him jump. He hadn't suspected the fire in her lips, the power in her suck, the heat in his groin. She continued down a wet path, slowly working her way down to his collarbone and tracing the previously determined road up to his lips.

Their kiss was soft, delicate and loving. There was a buzz between them, a buzz that passed from their temporarily joined bodies. He hadn't felt it before, the first time, but it tantalized his scenes and filled her emptiness.

From there it spiraled out of control. The details aren't necessary, their tango up to your imagination. One thing was certain, one must be mentioned. As he entered her, she cried.

With every thrust her moans were mixed with salty tears.

She climaxed silently, rolling over and onto her feet. She left him lying there, making her exit towards the bathroom. 

As she sat there with her back pressed against the wall, he knew she was crying.

**

Half a year was gone.

Their days and nights were always the same. Same nine to five, same changeless dinner, same sleepless night. All the same, except for one night.

They decided to go to the park.

The walk didn't take them long. They took their time and still got there earlier than expected, numb fingers slightly warmed but the coffee in their hands. He missed LA.

The park was full of screaming children. Children who all ran about the grassy knolls, across the black asphalt, towards the gigantic jungle gym. In the corner stood a field of girls, jumping over rainbow-colored rope, hoping from side to side.

At first he thought he heard the the song from his dreams. The tone they began to hum sent shivers up his spine.

He froze.

"What's wrong, Will?" he heard question. He ignored her and followed the sound.

The tallest child open her mouth and began to sing:

"Jack and Jill went up the hill…."

He sighed in relief, turning on his heel to find a confused Sydney standing in his previous wake. She laughed at him and shook her head. 

A shadowed figure caught her eye. She stopped in her tracks, the paper cup in her hands crashing to the asphalt. He followed her line of vision and almost couldn't believe what he saw.

The man was tall, his cheekbones defined, jutting. He was dressed in all black, his hair sandy brown, his sunglasses blandly standing out against his pale skin. His left forearm was wrapped in a white cast, his long sleeves covering the majority of its lengths. 

He removed his sunglasses, revealing painfully bright green eyes that cut straight through him. He had a European look about him, from his eyes to the shade of his hair. He came towards them at a painful pace, only brushing past Sydney's right shoulder long enough to make her eyes tear. 

Later that night he came to understand. He understood the European, his disappearance, his supposed death. That his wrist had been broken as the water slammed him up against the steel door. He came to understand this all from his post behind the door. From a crack he saw her smile. He heard her happiness, her tears, her love. 

He knew things would be different, and he would miss her.

He would miss her, because he couldn't live otherwise.

She was gone.

He was happy.

[end] 


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